"I am not praising your work," Huntington insisted; "that would be presumptuous. Its merit has passed far beyond the point where praise from me could affect it. Each volume which comes into the market is hungrily snatched up, and we all have been eager to discover who the master was. Where did you learn so much?" "I have been interested in the mechanics of printing ever since, as a boy, I had my first press," explained Hamlen; "but I only turned to it seriously after I came here and felt the need of something to keep my mind engaged. I have in my library examples from probably most of the great printers and binders, but--I'm afraid you won't understand me when I say it--they have never interested me particularly, nor do they now. I am only interested in what I do myself; and when I explain I am sure you will not think me egotistical." "Go on," Huntington urged as Hamlen paused, but there was a break before the speaker continued. "You said a moment ago that you did not sympathize with some of my books; that is perfectly natural. I said just now that I was only interested in my own work; that, too, I believe, is natural. I have no knowledge of the great _incunabula_, I know nothing of the history of printing, and in making these few books I have had no thought of producing examples of the printer's or the binder's art: they stand to me simply as symbolic of certain phases of myself,--some good, perhaps, some bad; but all representative of my mood when they were made. I tell you, Huntington"--Hamlen continued with deep intensity--"I tell you now what I have never before put into words, that those are not books at all; they are simply the expression of a something in my soul which demands an outlet, and it comes out through my finger-tips. That sounds absurd, but it is the solemn truth!" "Absurd?" cried Huntington. "My dear fellow, what you have just said is the explanation of the books which we collectors, poor simple fools, haven't been able to give. Don't you see that by your very act you have placed yourself among the masters? What else are the sculptures of Michelangelo, the paintings of Raphael, but the expression of their messages to the world made through the media with which they were familiar? With them it was stone and canvas, with you it is type and paper and leather. Thank God you couldn't write!" Hamlen listened to him in amazement, unable to grasp at once the significance or the breadth of all he heard. It was natural that Huntington's last words should be the first in his hearer's mind. "What do you mean,--'thank God you couldn't write'?"